To Everything There is a Season
by INSANITY - BRILLIANCE
Summary: We've all heard it said that you reap what you sow. And we've all been lead to believe that there is some guiding force that balances the universe. Some call it God. Others refer to it as karma. While still others think it to be fate or mere chance. Whatever it's called it doesn't change the fact that it exists...(full summary inside based off of Ecclesiastes 3:1-8.)
1. Prologue

**Summary (please read... important info for the story):**

We've all heard it said that you reap what you sow. And we've all been lead to believe that there is some guiding force that balances the universe. Some call it God. Others refer to it as karma. While still others think it to be fate or mere chance. Whatever it's called it doesn't change the fact that it exists.

For the world to exist as it does there needs to be a balance.

There cannot be one without the other. Light cannot exist without darkness. Good cannot exist without evil. Death cannot exist without life. Strength cannot exist without weakness. And so on and so forth…

We need a balance in our own lives just as much as the world needs a balance. Without balance there would be chaos. And chaos leads to destruction.

In the matters of life and death, it was the job of a reaper and a scythe to even the scales. It was a task given to a select few. Many only knew of them from stories passed down that had been brushed off as the imagination of a child or superstitions of the elderly. But they are just as real you and I, walking among us, disguised as humans.

You may pass them on the way to work crossing the street or at your local coffee shop reading a book. They could be your neighbor or a complete stranger. Nevertheless, if one looks close enough there are signs that can point them out to you immediately.

 _Sign No. 1:  
_ They always travel in pairs.

Because of the nature of the relationship between reaper and scythe they are never without their partner. This is a result of the necessity that they both share. A reaper cannot reap without the scythe, while the scythe would not know who to reap without the reaper. They balance each other so that without one the other is useless.

 _Sign No. 2:  
_ They stand apart from a crowd.

It is unusual for a reaper and a scythe interact with people around them. In part because ordinarily most people don't notice them and if they do they are quickly brushed off and forgotten. There is only a select few that are able to not just notice them, but remember them as well. These individuals are rare, but as a rule are generally inhuman as well.

 _Sign No. 3:  
_ Their eyes don't match.

Probably the most noticeable and easiest to pick out is the color of their eyes. A reaper and a scythe 'exchange eyes' as it were, when they form a bond. When the bond is first formed a scythe will trade one of his/her eyes for one of the reapers; an exchange that allows the scythe to temporarily see the amount of time that a person has left in their life as long as the reaper is near. For the reaper, it allows them to keep track of the scythe at all times even when they are far away.

It is a bond stronger than anything.

* * *

 **To Every Thing There is a Season  
Prologue  
**

* * *

 **…  
** "To everything there is a season, and a time to every purpose under the heaven…"  
 **…**

 _1931 Chicago_

"Wow! Look Weiss," the woman nudged her companion in the side and gestured to the steam locomotive, "Have you ever seen anything like it?"

The two women stood on the train platform in Chicago, Illinois admiring the train that would take them to New York. The Flying Pussyfoot was one of a kind. A luxury steam engine modeled after the British Royal train, it is on the same level with the Titanic in regards to class. Each train car was extravagantly decorated both inside and out with no cost spared. It was a train only for the super-rich and famous.

Weiss shrugged her slender shoulders brushing a strand of pale blonde hair from her eyes. She watched her friend prance around with a sort of childlike excitement then sighed. "It seems like a waste," she answered.

"Ah there you go again not being able to appreciate beauty. Really look at it Weiss. Look at the craftsmanship. Imagine how long it took to build. Did you know that there is a crystal chandelier in ever compartment? And did you know that those chandeliers were handmade? Handmade Weiss!" The blonde barely avoided getting whacked in the face by her friend's long red braid as she spun around and placed her hands on the woman's shoulders. "Just thinking about how long it took to prefect every meticulous detail and the dedication that those people had… It really gets my blood pumping!"

The blonde stared blankly at the redhead. How is it that this person was her reaper? The question had plagued her many times over the past three decades and she had yet to come up with a rational answer. They were complete polar opposites; where Weiss was reserved, rational, and fairly easy going, Ruby, her partner, was a dreamer all gun-ho and meticulous. They were an unlikely pair, mismatching in personality and physical appearance.

"At least we get to see it before it's put out of commission," Weiss smiled softly unable to resist Ruby's infectious grin any longer.

Ruby sighed dramatically and stepped away from the smaller woman. "Ah, yes it's a shame that this will be its last expedition. I thought it would be lovely to take a nice relaxing trip through the countryside, just the kids and us ya know. I'm sure that Octavia and Lincoln would've loved it," she flipped her braid back over her shoulder, "Maybe Thelonious could've come too."

"That would've been nice," the blonde breathed.

"You must be excited to be going to New York and seeing him. How long has it been now? Seven –eight years maybe, since you've seen your son?" Ruby pondered.

Weiss shift her weight and tugged at the green wool scarf around her neck thinking about it. "It was when he graduated from the academy, so yeah it's about eight years now," she realized.

Ruby hummed and shoved her hands into the pockets of her black wool coat. She looked out at the passengers boarding the train. "I'm happy for you," she told her honestly, "it's too bad though that we won't get to enjoy this train ride. So many people are going to die… We're gonna have to work through the night so there won't be any time to look around."

"It's going to be a long ride," Weiss agreed, "And remember we have someone to take care of before the train leaves."

Ruby groaned. "Sometimes I hate our job. You ever feel like that? Like sometimes you wish you were human and just enjoy your life while you have it?" She questioned.

"Almost every day," she replied, "but there is nothing we can do to change it. We were born this way. Without us no one would be able to live or die; caught in between life and death and suffering the agony of dying. We're necessary to keep the balance."

The other woman put her hands behind her back. They both started to walk down the platform while carrying on the conversation. Their heels clicked softly on the walkway like the ticking off a clock. "What do you reckon it's like to be born human?" Ruby wondered.

"I couldn't imagine it."

"Try."

"Well I guess it would be frightening," the blonde said, "I mean they're so fragile. Anything can hurt them. They're vulnerable and death literally follows them everywhere they go. They don't have any guarantees that they'll even be alive tomorrow."

"That's an interesting idea," Ruby nodded.

"What about you?" Weiss asked as they both came to a stop not far from a group of train conductors. The group was composed to three men of varying ages. All of them were laughing boisterously as some joke that the youngest, a red-haired man in his mid-twenties, had made. The two women watched them as silent spectators.

"I would say exhilarating. The fact that humans are so fragile makes it that way. Tomorrow isn't guaranteed and because of that they live in the moment. Take Tony for example," the redhead pointed to the oldest conductor, "he's retiring today. Right now he's thinking about the future and how's he's going to transition from being a train to conductor to a man of leisure. His life story is a blank page and filled with opportunities. Maybe he'll take up painting or finally get around to planting a garden and having fresh tomatoes… the possibilities are endless."

"But he's not going to do any of those things," Weiss argued, "Time has run out for him."

"Don't you see it Weiss?" She threw out her arms dramatically causing the blonde to swiftly duck out of the way again to avoid getting hit, "He doesn't know that. That is why it is exhilarating. Unlike you and me, humans can dream. They are not burdened by knowing the exact time they are going to die. That is why they are able to do things that neither you nor I could ever dream of. That is how they can build things like the Flying Pussyfoot or the Titanic. What I would give to be able to dream like that…"

The blonde chuckled pushing Ruby's arm down and brushed a strand of hair from her eyes. "You sound like such a romantic," she remarked fondly, "I think that you dream enough as it is."

"But not like them," Ruby sighed.

"Would it be worth it though?" she mused, "Trading the security that we have for the ability to dream, so many human's take their time for granted. Most never accomplish anything of importance." Weiss watched as Tony said goodbye to the other two conductors and began to walk down the platform.

The women began to trail after him only a few paces behind him. They made no move to stop the man as he neared one of the train cars. Neither of them called out for help either. It wasn't their job to intervene with fate. They could only watch as Tony was pulled between the train cars.

Weiss slipped her hand into Ruby's. It took less than a second for the blonde to shift herself into her scythe form. Ruby swung the long metal rod over her shoulder and balanced it as she climbed between the train cars. Her eyes and ears scanned for any sign of Tony honing in on his strangled pleas like a beacon.

"Please, no, please."

She saw two men standing at the edge of the tracks over the canal that led to the sewer. Tony was being pinned against the brick railing by a younger man decked out in a white suit. He had been forcefully stripped of his conductor's uniform that was lying on the ground by the two. Ruby clicked her tongue with distaste as she watched and waited for the time to act.

There was a brief struggle and then a pained gasp from the old conductor. Ruby sprang forward quickly as the man in the white suit hoisted Tony up and threw the man's body over the railing. She landed with her feet on the railing and swung Weiss out in a graceful arc. The scythe passed through Tony's torso and snagged his soul; extracting it from the bleeding husk. The light blue orb about the size of a peach stuck to the blade and Tony's lifeless body splashed in the sewer water below.

"What a stupid fool," the man in the white suit cackled. He stepped away from the railing and retrieved the uniform from the ground. Ruby glared as she twisted around from her perch on the railing. He shook the dirt off the jacket and pants. "Ha. Ha. Ha. Ladd is going to love this," he grinned swinging around in a circle and running off toward the train cars.

The redhead jumped down from the railing and watched at the man passed between the train cars. "What a sicko," she spat, "He's a vile piece of filth. That's one soul I don't mind reaping." She set the scythe against the railing and stuck her hands into her coat pocket pulling out a pen and a little black book. She scribbled the name of the conductor and the time and place of death.

Weiss, having shifted back to her human form, peered over the railing. She stared down at the lifeless face bobbing in the water. "How long do you think it'll take for someone to find him?" She asked. The blue orb in her hands glowed dimly as she lifted it up to her mouth and swallowed it.

"Maybe a week or so at least," Ruby sighed sliding the book back into her pocket, "The smell of the water should mask the smell of rotting corpse for a while. So when he is found he'll probably be all bloated and half eaten from the sewer rats."

"What a shitty way to go," she breathed as they began to walk back toward the train cars.

Ruby nodded in agreement. "The shittiest."

* * *

 **Author's Note:**

I recently stumbled on to Baccano!and I had this idea pop into my head and I could not get it out. Usually I purge myself of these by writing them down so they're not in the forefront of my mind and I can focus on other things. And let's just say that the anime in general doesn't get enough love on this site because there's only like 300 fanfics and honestly it deserves a lot more than that. So you guys review and tell me what you think... (Personally, I think I may have gotten a bit to philosophical towards the end...) and thank you for reading the first chapter.


	2. Chapter 1

**To Everything There is a Season  
Chapter One**

* * *

 **…  
** "…A time to be born, and a time to die…"  
 **…**

 _1931 Flying Pussyfoot_

"Excuse me."

The man stopped in drying the glasses and startled looking up at the two women that he had not noticed before. The taller of the two, a freckled faced redhead dressed all in black, was grinning up at him. The shorter blonde woman rested her chin in her small glove covered hand and sighed, "Go on Ruby, we don't have all night."

"Uh- well you see Mr. John Panel we were sent by FRA to inspect this train. We're conducting a search to make sure that the Flying Pussyfoot is continuing to meet all safety regulations along with any new regulations that have been passed recently," the redhead told him.

The bartender shifted his weight nervously. "I was under the impression that this train has already been inspected by the FRA. Just last month if I remember correctly," he responded a little confused. The man didn't fully believe their story. For one they were two women, not that there weren't women who worked in the train industry, but it was rare sight to see. Two, both of them were young, too young to be train inspectors looking no more than their mid-twenties at most. Third, there was something about them that just unsettled him. Maybe it was their eyes; no that was most definitely it, the red and blue irises that seemed to be mirrored images of one another was very eerie.

"It's a surprise inspection," replied the blonde, "They sent us because we were less likely to draw attention to ourselves." It was an obvious lie, one that the bartender caught onto quickly.

"Do you have some form of identification?" He asked.

Ruby and Weiss glanced at each other briefly before reaching into their coats and retrieving two little leather books. They flipped them open and showed them to the man. He looked down at the black and white photographs of the women. The names Weiss Schwarz and Ruby Masters were print in thick black ink and stamped with the official stamp. It looked real enough and he didn't have any evidence to contradict it.

"As we were saying Mr. Panel we only need to ask you a couple of questions," the blonde said snapping the book closed and slipping it back into her coat. Ruby was a little slower glancing down at the opened page with a frown as if she didn't like the picture it contained.

"What kind of questions?"

"Some routine questions about the train. Have you noticed anything odd?"

"Odd?"

"Yes is there anything you think we should be aware of; flickering lights, humming noises, loose screws, cold drafts, strange shadows, glowing eyes…"

John stared at the two women blankly. ' _Glowing eyes? Strange shadows?'_ he thought, ' _These two are off their bleedin' rocker.'_ "No I haven't noticed anything like that," he laughed a bit forcefully.

"What about the passengers?" Ruby asked, "Have you noticed anyone acting suspicious?"

 _'Besides the two of you…'_ he shook his head no. John watched as the two women seemed to share some form of silent communication. It lasted for only a moment, but whatever passed between them caused the redhead to nod and turn back to him with that same friendly smile.

"Thank you for your time. It was a pleasure meeting you," she said.

"Uh –sure."

"You'll be fine tonight so there should be nothing to worry about. However, just in case, when shit hits the fan, duck into the kitchen. No one should bother you there," Ruby advised.

His expression was one of confusion as he blinked. ' _What is she going on about?'_ John wondered. He didn't get a chance to ask her, however, because the young conductor walked up to the bar. The young man's eyes flickered between the blond and the place he was staring at curiously.

"Who ya talking ta Johnny?" He questioned.

The bartended turned his attention away from the two women and turned to the conductor. "What do you mean, Claire? I'm talking to…" He turned back to the two women and froze. They place where they had been standing was empty.

"To?" Claire pressed.

His eyes widened slightly as he tried to remember who exactly he had been talking to. The picture of the two women was quickly fading from his mind as he tried desperately to grasp on to anything about them. Try as he might the only thing that stuck was the red eyes. "Um… no one."

Claire shrugged brushing off the strange behavior of the other man. "Hey, have ya ever heard the legend of the rail tracer?"

…

 _1932 New York_

The old man sighed as he looked out from behind the counter. It was a slow day. Not many people had come into the small bookstore that day and only a handful of patrons actually bought anything. Besides himself there was only one other being in the room with him. After that incident a few weeks ago, there was no way that he could keep referring to Luck Gandor as human.

He still wasn't quite sure what to make of it. The world as he now realized was a far stranger place than he could have imagined. Watching two men die and come back to life tended to have that effect on a person. And while it terrified him, the man was also intrigued by the notion that after eighty years in the world there were still things that he hadn't a clue about.

The old man watched Luck curiously as he read through the pages of collective poems of Edgar Allen Poe. He hadn't spoken so much as a word since he arrived, except for the polite greeting when he walked through the door. It was so quiet that it was almost as if he wasn't there. He turned his attention back to the copy of the Daily Days in his hands and the half-finished crossword it contained.

Tapping his pen absently on the counter top as he tried to think of an eleven letter word for rebirth, he heard the little bell on the door ring. A cheerful noise telling him that someone else had either entered the tiny bookshop or Luck had stepped out. He glanced up over his thick framed glasses at the door; a puzzled expression crossing his visage when there was no one there. Confusion only grew once he noticed that Luck hadn't moved from his spot in the corner, furthest from the door.

The old bookkeeper looked around; turn his head this way than that, before he brushed it off as a couple of kids messing around and returned to the newspaper. Had the man paid a little more attention, he would've observed Luck as his golden eyes left the page of his book and trailed through the store, following some unseen person, and stopping at the register behind which the old man sat. However, as luck would have it, the bookkeeper saw none of this. His withered gaze was drilling holes into the black and white print.

"Try the word renaissance," a soft voice suggested helpfully.

The old man jumped at the unexpected sound, almost slipping off the stool on which he sat. A pair of multicolored eyes sparked with concerned as the young woman, who had practically been lying on the counter to peer at the man's crossword, backed up to give him some space. She tugged at her green wool scarf, looking a little sheepish.

"I apologize," she said, "I didn't mean to scare you."

"No. No. It's alright," he told her adjusting his glasses; his gaze sweeping over her. He decided that she was probably one of the most unusual people that he'd ever laid eyes on. The woman had pale blonde hair, so pale in fact that it appeared almost white, that combine with her ivory skin gave him the impression of a ghost. He tried not to stare into her rather unusual eyes, especially the red one, as he spoke. "What was it you were saying?" He asked.

The woman gestured to the paper in his hand. "Your crossword," she said leaning against the counter again, "Seventeen down, an eleven letter word for rebirth, is the word renaissance."

He studied the crossword carefully as he silently counted out the boxes. "It fits," the old man said his eye brows lifting in surprise as he scribbled the letters onto the paper. The woman smiled softly nodding her head approvingly. "Was there anything I could help you with?" He asked politely.

"Yes, I'd like to purchase these books." She patted a small stack of hardcovers with her hand that the man had somehow missed before. The woman slid them over to him. The bookkeeper examined the books and punched in their prices on the register. The blonde watched the man with a sort of curiosity while tapping her fingers against the counter top.

"You're total is five-fifty," he told her. The blonde reached into the pocket of her brown tweed coat and pulled a couple of bills and loose change. She placed these into the man's hand. The old man popped opened the cash drawer with a chink and deposited the money inside. "Would you like me to bag these?"

"Yes, please."

He slid the books into a brown paper bag and handed it to her. "Thank you for your business. Hope to you come again," he said picking back up the newspaper. He only looked away for a moment, nonetheless that was enough time for the woman to slip away as if she never existed. The old man scratched the back of his head while he stared at the place that she stood. _'I think my old age is starting to catch up with me…'_

The bell rung a few seconds later as Luck Gandor left the store.

…

 _1930 New York Bay_

It was torture.

That was all the man could think as he sat at the bottom of the New York harbor. He lost track of how long he had been in that oil barrel with a pack of playing cards rubbing against his face. It could've been weeks, months, or years for all he knew. However the man counted every agonizing second as his mouth and lungs filled with water. The only comfort he found was in the short minutes in which he died before his body regenerated and he was again gasping for air and choking on saltwater.

He thought he was damned to spend the rest of his life like this. There was no way he would escape from this watery-hell. The man had lost all will to live or even struggle in the cement casing that he was stuck to. He only wished for the time that he would die.

So it came as quite a surprise when the man was pulled up from the bay. At first he didn't think it was real. Perhaps it was some hallucination that his mind had conjured. Maybe he had finally begun to lose his mind altogether, but that didn't change the hope that flared up in him when he felt something jostle the barrel and begin to drag it up.

Everything passed in a haze after that, he was only vaguely aware of the point when he stopped he stopped inhaling water and instead started coughing it up. And when the barrel finally landed on solid ground rolling a couple times, the man was still thinking that it was all a dream. It was only when he was hoisted upright and the lid was pried off allowing the first glimmer of sunlight to hit his eyes after all that time shrouded in darkness that he started to think that maybe it was really happening.

His eyes squinted looking up at the two silhouettes standing over him. The figures said something of which the man couldn't make out, the words sounding garbled and muffled to his ears, before they set to work in breaking him out of the cement. He sat patiently while they worked, making not a sound as they maneuvered him so they had better access to the rock.

As his eyes began to adjust, he was able to see the two people better. He didn't recognize the two men. That fact alone should've worried him, but he found that he didn't have the energy to care. They were both fairly young in appearance, yet they carried themselves in way that suggested that they were a lot older than they looked. Neither said anything to him while they worked and when the man was finally free from the cement casing they helped him climb out of the barrel and onto the docks.

His knees wobbled a bit as he stepped onto solid ground for the first time in god knows how long. One of the men steadied him a brief flash of emotion on his otherwise stoic expression and the other wrapped a warm blanket around his shivering frame. The man looked at his two rescuers with humbled appreciation shinning in his eyes. "T-t-th-th-tha-thank y-yo-you," he stuttered.

They nodded and one of them patted his shoulder almost sympathetically.

"Jasper, Nikolia." The two men immediately stiffened and distanced themselves from the sodden man. They turned to newcomer, another fairly young man wearing an expensive looking suit and a black tweed coat, and bowed their heads slightly. "Once you're both done cleaning up the mess seal up this barrel and throw it back in the bay. Then come to the house as soon as you're done with that. Keira is cooking diner so don't be late. She hates it when people are late, but I don't really need to tell you that," he said.

Jasper and Nikolia nodded solemnly and muttered a polite, "Of course, Sir. We won't make Ms. Keira wait." They quickly went back to work cleaning up the bits of cement and throwing it into the barrel.

"Mr. Genoard, please come with me." The man watched as the other man walked over to a black automobile and opened one of the doors. "Today sir, if you please. I'm sure you want a warm meal and some clean clothes," he sighed tiredly.

Dallas Genoard didn't know who this strange man was, but his offer sounded frank enough that he decided to get in the car. He was still shaking as he wrapped the blanket tighter around his shoulders. There were a lot of questions that needed to be answered. Who were these people? What did they want with him? How did they know where he was and his name? And most importantly, why did they pull him from the bay?

He wanted to voice these questions out loud. He had every intention of asking the man driving, but Dallas's body was fighting against him. He was exhausted. Before he knew it he had already nodded off, the hum of the automobile lulling him to sleep like a mother's lullaby.

"Mr. Genoard."

"Huh?"

"Sir, we've arrived at our destination," The man explained after shaking the Genoard son awake.

Dallas sat up groggily and looked through the window at the fairly new brownstone townhome. It was located in a rather nice neighborhood far away from the mafia wars and street thugs that habituated the seedier neighborhoods. It was the kind of place that well-to-do people lived; people who came from rich families, people like the Genoard family. Dallas recognized the neighborhood immediately because his own childhood home was not but a couple blocks away.

"If you'd come inside, there is someone who is very eager to meet you," he added and then stepped out from the driver's side. Dallas was given no choice but to exit the car as well and follow him up the steps and through the green painted door. He followed the man, who he still hadn't gotten the name of, into a quaint sitting area off of the foyer. "Take a seat," he said motioning toward the sofa.

"Oliver is that you?" A woman's voice called out from down the hall. Both the men turned to the open door, Dallas glancing up at his escort, Oliver, before looking at the door.

"Yes," Oliver answered quietly.

Heels clicked on the hardwood floor as the woman approached the doorway to the room that the two men occupied. She walked into the room carrying a tea tray and a plate of finger sandwiches. "Hello," she said courteously when her eyes fell on Dallas, "I brought you some tea and sandwiches to tie you over until diner. Feel free to help yourself."

His eyes shifted between the woman and the tray that she set on the coffee table in front of him. Dallas couldn't deny the empty pit that his stomach was as he eyed the cucumber sandwiches. The man didn't even like cucumber, but at the moment he really couldn't have cared less. It was food. That was all that mattered to him; after possibly years of going without it he had learned to appreciate the little things.

"Oliver would you make sure that our guest's room is in order? I asked those to do it, but they always procrastinate." The woman asked turning toward Dallas's escort with a sweet smile.

Oliver nodded and left the room quietly without a word. The woman, who Dallas had begun to think was this mysterious Keira, took a seat on the sofa and began pouring herself a cup of tea. The man was unsure of how to act in this situation. He shifted nervously eyeing the sandwiches that he still hadn't touched even though his stomach was grumbling like a feral dog. "Do you like sugar or honey in your tea?" The woman asked looking up and meeting his eyes.

He was taken aback by the intensity that he saw there. There was something about them that made him feel small and insignificant like the woman was able to see straight through any disguise that he could put up and see that scared broken child that he was. He was unsure what gave him this impression, but if he had to guess perhaps it was that one eye was a dark brown like the color of freshly tilled earth and the other a liquid gold that reminded him so much of that Luck Gandor. Maybe the unusual pigmentation made it seem that way or maybe it was the resemblance to Luck Gandor that had a sense of fear swelling up inside him. "Sugar's fine," he grumbled lowly.

The woman turned back to the tea tray and dumped a couple spoonfuls of sugar into the cup and gave it a good stir. "You've been through quiet the ordeal. I can't imagine what it was like to be stuck down there with no hope of getting out. You must be relieved," she said putting the cup of tea in his shaking hands.

Dallas didn't know how to respond to that. Instead he raised he raised the teacup to his lips and took a long sip. He sighed as the warm liquid traveled down his throat chasing away the chill that had taken over his bones. It appeared that the woman didn't expect him to reply to her statement as she began speaking again.

"Let's not stand on formalities, Dallas. I'm going to be blunt. There is a reason that we pulled you out of the bay, but I'm sure you know that already."

"How did you know my name?" He asked.

She shrugged her shoulders and took a sip of her tea before answering. "We have been researching you for a while."

"Why?"

She ignored his question and continued as if he never spoken. "What we found was quite interesting. A third child of the distinguished Genoard family you were not remarkable in any way. Your brother was the heir to the family business and your sister was the beloved gem of the family, while you were just a lowly thug –a leach who only came home when you ran out of cash. The people you associated with were no better than street filth that preyed on the weak and defenseless…"

"Hey lady I don't know who you think ya are talkin' to me like that…"

"My name is Keira," she snapped irritated, "You will refer to me as such!" Her voice boomed with so much authority that it had Dallas shifting away from her. She took a deep breath and calmed downed. Then that soft smile was back in place, but Dallas was quickly learning that it was only a farce. "Now please don't interrupt," she said.

"–Your life was useless. You lived without purpose and drifted along until the day that you stumbled upon immortality. However you were only able to enjoy it for a day before you were stuffed into an oil barrel and thrown into the bay. If that was where your story ended it would've been a waste."

The woman picked up one of the cucumber sandwiches and popped it in her mouth. Her red lips pursing together in thought as she chewed. Keira took another sip from her tea and brushed a strand of her black wavy hair over her shoulder. "The reason you're sitting her and not drowning at the bottom of the bay is because of me. I'm the one that had you pulled up out of the river, while your friends continue to suffer. Why?" She paused dapping at her mouth with a napkin, her red lipstick leaving bright red stains, and then she continued, "Because I wanted to give you a chance to live up to your potential. If you chose this can be your new life. I can give you a purpose, a place where you belong, a real family if that's what you desire or you can go back to your street muggings and continue to be the Dallas Genoard that everybody hates."

"That doesn't sound like much of a choice," he replied.

"No it really isn't," she agreed, "There's only one smart choice, Dallas. The only question is rather or not you're willing to make it."

…

 _1931 Flying Pussyfoot_

"So back to your question, how can you be spared? The only thing is that everyone who hears this story dies. So I'm sorry to have to break it to you like this kid, but there is no way to be spared."

The young conductor was backed into a corner as the older conductor had a revolver pointed to his face. The younger man looked frightened; a normal response they guessed. Ruby was leaning against the door frame holding Weiss over her shoulder. They both waited patiently for the scene to play out. They didn't know how it would happen, but they could sure venture a guess, how one of the conductors would meet their fate.

 _'Claire Stanfield,'_ they both sighed internally. There was no way there would be a pleasant out come on this train. The two had crossed paths with the famous assassin on several occasions. They knew first hand of the carnage that he could produce. When they saw him on the platform both women knew that it was sure to be a long night.

Just as the older conductor had finished with his speech and was about to pull the trigger was when the young conductor acted. The man swung one of his legs up and kicked the revolver out of the older man's hand. The gun spun around twice in midair before the young conductor caught it in his hand. The redhead tilted his head down as a smile pulled at his lips.

"There is one way to be spared," he said, "You just have to kill it before it kills you."

The older conductor began to back away towards the door where Ruby was standing. "Now wait," the man pleaded not so imposing now that the gun had now been turned on him.

"It's too late," Claire spoke coolly.

Ruby lifted Weiss off her shoulder and maneuvered her so the blade of the scythe was between the older conductor and Claire, the blade almost brushing against the older man's torso. Neither man noticed this rather obvious thing as Claire continued to speak. "Well now, I guess it's only fair that I finish, huh? The best way to keep the rail tracer from showing up is to believe the story when someone tells it to ya, but if it's already here your only hope is to keep running until the morning sun rises. But it's too late for you," he tightened his grip on the trigger, "The rail tracer is certain now to show up for all the people on this train. Your sacrifice will surely awaken it…"

 _"A bit dramatic, dontcha think?"_ Ruby asked Weiss.

 _"Maybe a little,"_ the woman laughed.

"–Now it's time for you to die."

The gun shot was deafening in the tiny conductors' compartment. The older conductor was thrown back from the force of it his head bouncing against the wall as blood and chunks of his brain splattered on Claire, Ruby, and Weiss. _"Eww. I think I got some of it in my mouth,"_ Ruby whined as she tried to spit the blood and bits of brain out of her mouth.

 _"Heads up. Another one's coming through the door,"_ Weiss said.

Ruby turned around and saw the same man from the station decked out in Tony's conductor's uniform. His eyes darted around with sense of childlike glee as he tried to rein in his excitement. _"Oh joy, I was waiting for this sick bastard,"_ the woman drawled moving Weiss and her away from the door and slipping out through on of the open windows at the back of the train car.

She leaned up against the metal handrail and Weiss morphed back to her humanoid form holding the soul of the older conductor in her hands. Then she took out her little black notebook and quickly scribbled the name, time, place and cause of death on and blank page before snapping it closed and tucking it back into her coat and Weiss morphed back into her scythe form after having stored the man's soul.

"Who are you?" Claire's voice came through the open window.

"Hey, would you hold on just a second buddy," stuttered the second voice. The imposter, a man by the name of Dune, raised his hand in surrender as his eyes continued to dart around in what could be considered nervousness, but Ruby knew was excitement. "I ain't doin' nothing to nobody, got it?"

The lights from the compartment allowed the two women to be silent spectators as Claire and Dune faced off. Of course in the state that Weiss was in she had to settle with watching the scene play out through Ruby's eyes, but it worked just as well. The wind whipped through the air causing Ruby's long braid to flap and snap in the wind.

"There are only two conductors who were scheduled to be aboard this train tonight. So who does that make you?" Claire didn't relent as he regarded the man across from him seriously. Something wasn't right with this situation. The man was too relaxed.

"Okay, why do you just put the gun down and we can talk this out?" Dune suggested.

"Why are you so relaxed when I got a gun pointed in your face? Who the hell are you?! What are you after?"

There was a beat of silence at that question before the disguise slipped of the man's face. "Huh," he sighed, "that was quick." The gun dropped on the floor with a thud as it slipped from Claire's open palm. "Hey, what's that supposed to mean?" Dune asked looking down at the fallen weapon.

"You don't look like the type that would respond to the usual encouragements," He remarked simply, "I can see this will take something more." The young conductor walked over to the door that led to the outside of the train where Ruby and Weiss were waiting. He undid the lock and slid it open calmly casting light onto Ruby's face.

Dune wasn't fazed by this. In fact the man laughed it off. "Wait pal, do you mean torture? You'll never get any reliable information," he told him as Claire stepped out into the chilly night air, "I should know." He slipped his hand into his jacket and retrieved his own firearm. "You know it was nice of you to drop your gun and even things up like that," he commented, "but I'm afraid I can't return the favor."

He looked up puzzled when the young conductor wasn't standing in the doorway anymore. Following him out into the night, Dune stood at the edge of the platform between the two handrails looking for where the other man could've gone. _'Oh where or where can that train conductor be?'_ he laughed silently.

Suddenly two hands gripped at his ankles and pulled causing him to lose his balance. Dune fell rapidly towards the tracks only to be stopped from falling against them and being crushed by Claire. The young conductor had maneuvered the other man so that he was facing the tracks his face dangerously close to the planks of wood whizzing past them. Dune wasn't finding the situation so amusing anymore. "I'll try one more time!" Claire yelled over the wind lashing past them, "Tell me who you are!"

Dune struggled trying to use the gun in his hands, his fingers being rather useless. "That's too bad," Claire sighed not as apologetic as those words sounded. He grabbed the man's hand and forced it down towards the tracks.

The screaming the result was enough to put any normal person of their lunch. Blood splattered everywhere coating some of the handrail and the railway tracks after the train. Ruby was leaning over the edge watching with slight interest at what was going on. "I'm gonna ask you again. Who. Are. You?"

"D-d-une," the other man sputtered weakly.

"What are you doing on this train?" When Dune didn't answer he pushed the rest of his arm towards the ground. Screams tore through the air again causing a shiver to travel up the reaper's spine. ' _Wow, that's brutal,'_ she thought shielding her face from a spurt of blood. "Now Dune, friend of the Russo family, I know what your buddies little plan is –So just one more question, why the hell are you dressed up as a conductor?"

Dune began to laugh hysterically. "Ha. Ha. I-I like –Hehe –I like how it feels. It's fun. Killing is fun. Ha. Ha…"

Claire glared down at the other man. "That's your reason?" He yelled, "You just like killing for the fun of it, huh? Where did you get the uniform then?"

"This morning –some old man that I met at the station…"

"–Some old man? What did you do?" His eyes narrowed and he tightened his grip on his arm. That sounded like…

"–I killed him! It was so much fun! Hehe…"

The young conductor froze. _'No…'_ he thought remembering the old conductor Tony, who he had just not talked to a couple hours ago. The man was something like a father to him and this… ' _No!'_ Claire let out something akin to a growl as he pushed the man's face down toward the tracks. "You should know, that old man's name was Tony. He taught me everything I know about being a conductor!"

Blood sprayed everywhere coating the tracks, platform, and underneath the train as well when Dune's face was ripped off. Peeled off like sod from a lawn and left leaving a bloody trial behind the train. Weiss and Ruby had gotten covered in quite a lot of it, having splashed Ruby's coat and hair and covering her in a dusting of blood. Weiss having received the majority of all the gore was more or less dripping with it as it fell from the silver colored metal blade leaving little trails on the platform. They moved out of the way when Claire climbed out from under the train also covered in quite a bit of blood and pushed the dismembered husk that was Dune through the doorway.

It landed on the floor with a muted thud not far away from the hunched over form of the older conductor. The young conductor stared at his reflection in the glass of the windows. He brought up one of his bloody hand and traced a finger under each eye. "There's no going back now," he murmured smearing some of the excess blood over his face.

Claire looked past the blood splattered glass, his eyes catching movement of something. It was only a flash, a nanosecond, but the image was seared into his brain. A woman dressed all in black leaning against the handrail and balancing on her shoulder a massive scythe. Her bright red braid fluttering in the wind as she stood there; swaying with the motion of the train. She just stood there speckled with blood staring back at him evenly. It was like she knew he could see her and when she winked Claire was positive that she did. But then he blinked and as she suddenly appeared she vanished, no more than an illusion or a trick of the light.

* * *

 **Author's Note:**

Here's chapter two or chapter one as I like to think of it as the first was more of a prologue. I'm going to be jumping around a lot kind of like the anime does. This story is more of a flash of scenes involving my OC characters and a lot of characters from the main series. Thank you to those of you who've read this story so far.

Constructive criticism is encouraged. Feel free to leave any thoughts, comments, or suggestions in the reviews. :)


	3. Chapter 2

**A/N:**

Sorry this took so long. I'd like to thank _of fan and fic_ for helping me to get this chapter out and walking me through my writers block. This chapter wasn't what I had originally planed. The original had a scene from the academy, but I threw that out because I didn't really think it went with the theme of this chapter. I'll probably do a scene with the Reapers/Scythe's academy at some point. I'd also like to thank those of you who have followed and favorited this so far. It really means a lot.

* * *

 **To Everything There is a Season  
Chapter Two**

…  
"…a time to plant and a time to pluck up that which is planted..."  
…

 _1932 San Francisco_

The distant yell of screaming could be heard from down the street. The man didn't bother turning around or stopping to consider the wellbeing of his guys. Instead his only concern was booking it as quickly and as far as possible from that alleyway. "What the fuck was that?" he swore casting a fearful glance over his shoulder and down the street.

He saw nothing, only empty cobble stones. But where a sight like this should've reassured him that whatever had attacked them wasn't following him; it only made him more nervous because the screams had gone silent. Quite suddenly too, and it didn't take a road-side scholar to understand that he was next.

He rounded a corner, slipping into a narrow alleyway, hoping to escape. The walls felt like they were closing in around him and he kept shying away from the shadows as he past worried that someone or something would leap out at him. Fear was at the forefront of his mind. So it came as no surprise, that in his emotional state, the man did not notice the figure that glided over the rooftops along the alleyway.

The young woman ran along the rooftops with practiced ease. Her prey unaware that he was even being followed. She followed her training, staying on the balls of her feet and low to the ground as she ran. Her eyes barely making him out enough in the darkness, a frustration she wouldn't have if she had not been born human.

Finally, the man she had been chasing came to a dead-end. With nowhere else to go, he turned and faced the shadows. "Who the fuck are you? Show yourself!" He yelled near hysterical.

The woman easily jumped down landing on the cobble stones in a crouch. She adjusted the bloody weapon in her hands, gripping the handle as a jolt of energy flowed through her. She felt no remorse for what she had done or what she was about to do. _'One more… it's just one more,'_ she repeated to herself.

"Gregory Wellman," she spoke calmly stepping into the moonlight, "you and your gang stole a lot of money from the Fù Chá family. Now they weren't very happy with ya as you could imagine."

The man's face twisted up in confusion. "What the hell are you talking about? We didn't steal any fucking money from the fucking Fù Chás! That's a death wish!"

"Tsk. I know that, Mr. Wellman" she said taking a step closer, "but you see the Fù Chás don't. As far as they know fifty grand went missing yesterday from their vault and you and your boys are the most likely suspects."

"Wh-what… are you saying you?" Mr. Wellman sputtered outraged and fearful as he took a step back. "Fucking bitch! You'll pay, you'll pay for killing my guys."

A smile stretched over her face at his words. "I don't think so. You're bleeding out…"

To her word, the fatal wound on the man's stomach was steadily getting darker and darker. Mr. Wellman had his hand pressed firmly on the wound, but he knew that it wouldn't be long before he'd die if he didn't get to the hospital. Gripping the small knife in his other hand, her raised it toward the woman. The little weapon was a toothpick compared to the large sword she carried in her hands. "You're right, but I'll be damned if I don't take you down with me," he snarled then rushed her.

Blood spattered on the ground and the stone walls as the blade ripped through flesh. The long sword sliced through the man's body as easily as if it were a piece of paper; cutting the man's body in half with a single swing. It was barely a fight. A bunch of thugs were really no match for Excalibur. It was almost funny how surprised he looked in his last moments, eyes wide like a frightened child.

A bright light illuminated the alleyway as the sword absorbed the last of what was left of his soul. The hilt felt warm in her hands –tingly –almost as if a thousand tiny needles were sticking themselves into her hands and traveling up her arms. Then suddenly, the woman slouched against the wall; sword slipping from her grasp and clattering to the ground. Her shoulders shook with the intense coughs that racked her body.

Shakily she dug into her pockets for her handkerchief, pulling it out and bring it to her mouth as she continued to cough. When it subsided, a few seconds later, she pulled the handkerchief away from her lips; a crimson red speckled onto the previously pristine white cloth. Refolding the material so the red was no longer showing and returned it to her pocket. Then with a great sigh, she dug into her other pocket, retrieving a little brown leather-bound book and a small stub of a pencil. Flipping it to the last page, she read over the names written there; each striked-through with a single line.

 _Robbie Collins  
_ _David Waller  
_ _Christopher Humphries  
_ _Jolene Gaines  
_ _Valerie Plame  
_ _Eugene Philips_

Maneuvering the book so she could write, she crossed-out four more names.

 _Allen Marshall_  
 _Clifford Salvatore_  
 _Lowell Henry_  
 _Gregory Wellmen_

Satisfied that the list had finally been completed, she put the book back into her pocket, retrieved the fallen sword from the ground and walked away from the bloody slaughter with a shrewd smile on her face and bounce to her step. _'Woman with the white hair, I'm coming for you…'_

…

 _1931 Somewhere in Michigan_

Two men shrugged their coats tighter around their bodies. It was cold; an icy breeze billowing over a desolate part of the train tracks. It was New Year's Eve and already it looked as the next year would start off with a bang. Detectives Sullivan and Noah stood stationary inspecting the scene before them.

There was so much blood. The fluffy white snow was stained crimson with it. The massacre on the infamous Flying Pussyfoot had left more than a couple casualties. They counted at least four different groups that had been covered with thin gray blankets and that was just on this section of the track.

People from the police force were still working to gather all the pieces; their blue suits standing out against the white and gray backdrop. One of the officers approached the two detectives greeting them somberly before lifting the blanket at their feet.

Sullivan grimaced looking away briefly. What was there could barely be considered a body. It was a collection of body parts; an arm, a foot, and what looked to be three fingers lying in a puddle of blood. It was ghastly to look at, but years working for the Federal Bureau taught him not to lose his breakfast.

"Are you sure this is them?" The man asked after regaining his composure.

The officer recovered the carnage with the blanket and stood up. "Yes. The damage they took was severe, but there's no question that these were once passengers aboard the Flying Pussyfoot," he told them.

Detective Noah scanned over the landscape again, while his partner spoke. "How many bodies so far?"

"It's hard to say because they're all in bit and pieces," the officer explained, "however we estimate the numbers to be somewhere in the teens. They've been left along the tracks for twenty some odd miles."

The two detectives shared a meaningful glance that was quickly broken when another large automobile came clambering through the snow causing the three men to look at the vehicle in question. Like the officers' uniforms the bright red color of the paint stood out in the barren landscape. It was too outlandish and the detectives mentally groaned instantly recognizing the car. "Why'd she'd have to show up here of all places?" Sullivan grumbled sourly.

Phryne Corsetti stepped out of her car and waved excitedly at the two detectives. "Oho, Sullivan, Noah is that you?" She greeted, her loud voice cutting across the field. Pulling up her skirt and long red fox fur coat so it wouldn't drag against the ground, the woman made her way over to the small group.

"Miss Corsetti," Detective Sullivan responded curtly, "this is a Federal Investigation you're not allowed to be here."

Phryne made no sign that she even heard him as she extended her hand to the officer. "Hello sir, Phryne Corsetti Lady Detective," she greeted cheerfully. The man took her hand and shook it warily.

"Phryne," Sullivan hissed, "you shouldn't be here."

At this the woman turned her attention to the detective, a brief flash of annoyance crossing her face. "I heard you the first time, Detective, but you shouldn't be complaining to me. I was sent here by the Agency same as you," she explained.

"Well, tell the Agency that your assistance isn't needed," he countered.

Phryne crouched down and peered under the sheet at her feet; her eyes focused solely on the bloody carnage underneath. Unlike Sullivan she didn't flinch or draw away from the sight, but approached it with the curiosity of small child seeing a grasshopper. "I'm a bit busy right now," she quipped, "Why don't you tell them?"

The detective grumbled a few choice words under his breath and nodded his head towards Noah signaling for a quick escape. Noah responded with a nod of his own before turning to the officer and gruffly excusing themselves to their car. It was only after both the doors closed and they were in the confines of their own vehicle that Sullivan exploded.

"Those damn bastards! Damn them. We're not children and we don't need any of their kind sniffing around," he cursed. Beside him Noah put a cigarette to his lips, lighting it, then took a few deep puffs. He didn't express his discontent like his partner, but the scowl on his face was a sure tell that he was just as bothered by it. "Fucking shifters."

Shifters was a shortened term for what Phryne Corsetti was, the full term being Shapeshifter or the scientific therianthrope. They were essentially used by the Agency for Supernatural Affairs, or the better known Agency, in cases involving instances where the freaks' world crossed in the human realm because their humanoid appearance raised less alarms. And because Detectives Sullivan and Noah were put on the all the Supernatural cases, they had to be in the presences of these 'things' more often than not. Neither was too thrilled with that.

"So we're thinking it's them?" Noah exhaled a puff of smoke. Outside, Phryne flittered from blanket to blanket peering underneath them. The officer trailed after her warily and seemed to grow more uncomfortable with each blanket he had to lift.

"There's no doubt about it," Sullivan replied. "I read their names on the boarding list, so they were definitely on board…" It didn't need to be said who or what they were talking about. Those things, the _Immortals,_ were involved and there was no question in their minds that it was them who caused this travesty.

It was only a matter of hunting them down like they did with Huey Laforet. Soon all of them, not just the Immortals, would be behind bars. Agent Sullivan would see to that.

…

 _1932 New York_

' _How did I get here?'_ he wondered.

It was a reasonable question. Not because the man was lost, oh no, Luck Gandor could never get lost in New York City. It was because of the situation he now found himself in. And what a most peculiar situation it was.

He played over the events that led him there. He remembered enjoying the silence in the bookstore and how that silence was broken by the sharp ring of a bell. He remembered looking up and his blood freezing in his veins when her, that woman's, eyes lingered on him a little too long. Why he continued to observe her was out of curiosity. And he wondered how she, a complete stranger, could elicit that kind of reaction from him of all people.

So he watched, but the more he saw the more perplexed he became. He remembered how the old bookkeeper had jumped when he noticed her; a baffling reaction because the woman had been more or less scrutinizing his newspaper for over a minute. He remembered her soft bell-like voice when she gave him the answer to his crossword. But what he remembered most was how he slipped that book back onto the shelf and followed her out of the store.

It was proving to be one of the worst decisions he had ever made.

Luck let out a painful gasp wrapping his hand around the long blade that was thrust into his chest. He could feel the sharp point poking out his back, cutting through his torso like butter. It hurt. Immortality did nothing to curb the pain. The mobster believed that he had a higher tolerance to pain than most; however, there was difference between being ripped apart by bullets and being run through with a sword, the latter of which he had never experienced before now.

Part of him was furious. The other part, the more rational part, was beyond confused. As far as he knew this attack was unwarranted. He had never met this strange woman before and unless she was hired by the Runoratas, something he highly doubted, there was nothing he could think of that would cause such a reaction.

Even the moments leading up to the attack everything seemed normal. The woman was polite, thanking him for holding the door, and chatting idly about the nice weather; a bit strange considering the sky was grey and overcast that day. Luck had even begun to relax slightly, realizing the fear he felt in the store was just lingering reaction to the last time he had been there.

That was what he thought anyways, albeit he couldn't have been more wrong.

It all happened too quickly. One second he had been strolling down the sidewalk and then the next he was shoved roughly into an alleyway. Then before he even regained his balanced, he had a sword stuck between his pectoral muscles and through his heart.

In the time it took for the bag of books to hit the ground, the woman had successfully pinned him to the wall. Now, here they both were, the woman still crouched down in a lunge and Luck slouched against the wall, neither saying a word and staring into each other's eyes trying to unlock some hidden mystery.

The bag of books was forgotten by the woman. Instead she kept her hands firmly gripped on the blade's hilt and studied Luck with her unnerving eyes. A strand of her pale blonde hair fell in her face, obscuring one her eyes and the man instinctually reached out and tucked it behind her ear. She tensed faintly at his touch.

Luck examined her face warily. He had never before seen someone with red eyes, although it was only one. The sight in itself was interesting and to be honest terrifying. It held him captive. Her other eye had a much more calming effect; a pale blue soothing away some of the anxiety that he had. The man focused his attention on that eye instead as a vague memory started to work its way to the surface.

As child, probably around the age of five or six, his mother, having still been alive at the time, often took him and his brothers to the toy store. More often than not the kids never got anything too extravagant, maybe a baseball or a yoyo. Nonetheless, whenever they went young Luck had always been drawn to the window display.

You would think the boy would be interested in the elaborate trainset or the toy racing cars that attracted so many other little boys to the storefront, but this was not the case. Luck held no interest in trains like his adoptive brother, Claire, or automobiles like his older brother, Berga. He enjoyed the tranquility of a picture book over anything else. Still it wasn't a book that drew him to the display.

It was a doll; a meticulously crafted porcelain doll. It had long blonde hair and bright blue eyes set in a pale cherub face. The doll was the picture of innocence, something that Luck rarely saw in the people around him. That may have been what drew him to it to begin with.

He recalled his mother noticing his fixation with it one day. The woman placed a loving hand on his shoulder. "Pretty isn't it?" She had said. Luck remembered staring up at his mother, the only other person that radiated the same innocence as that doll, as she smiled fondly at the display.

"It looks like you," he replied.

His mother regarded him skeptically. The doll looked nothing like her. The woman's hair was brown, not blonde, and her eyes were the color of honey, not blue. "You think so?"

Luck nodded. His mother examined the doll again; her fingers brushing lightly against the fabric of the white dress that it wore. "You know I used to have one of these when I was a girl. It had been my grandmothers. I used to get so mad that I wasn't allowed to take it outside with me," she spoke softly a wry smile on her face. "I never understood why my mother insisted on it, but seeing one now as an adult I get it. These dolls aren't made to be played with. They're made of glass. They have to be handled gently or they'll break."

However, the woman in front of him now was no doll. In fact, she wasn't even human, that much he was sure of. And yes, while she reminded him of that doll, she was anything but fragile.

She was a demon with a doll's face.

The woman's eyes flickered down to the blade as she gave a swift tug, extracting it from Luck's body. Her mouth turned downwards in a frown while she watched the crimson stain on the man's shirt get smaller and smaller until all that was left was a torn hole. All traces of the wound had disappeared and Luck shivered when her fingers glided over the ripped fabric. Then as suddenly as she had stabbed him, she stood up and was leaning alongside the opposite wall.

"So I was right," she sighed the weapon hanging limply in one hand. The long narrow black blade almost scraping against the ground. It was the first time Luck had been able to get a good look at the weapon that had just moments ago been used against him. It was certainly out of place for the petite woman standing before him; too long for her short stature. God knows where she managed to hide it so he wouldn't see.

 _'Wait,'_ he paused thinking it over. _'There's no way she could've hidden that on her and I would've noticed if she was just carrying it around in her hand. It sticks out too much. And who even carries a sword with them nowadays?'_

"I do apologize for my rudeness. I assure you that what just happened wasn't personal. I was…" she stopped choosing her next words carefully, "It was an experiment. I needed to test out my hypothesis to make sure I was right and I guessed that if I had told you my intentions you would've never have agreed to it."

Luck still sat on the ground making no move to get up and stared at the blonde trying to wrap his mind around her outlandish explanation. "What hypothesis is that?" He asked a hint of irritation coloring his tone.

"–That it would be impossible to extract your soul from your body," she answered. "Although I understand if you're upset. If it'll make you feel better, I'll let you stab me too so we're even." In one fluid motion she twirled the blade so that handle was now facing him.

She was serious, he realized as she waited for him to take the weapon. Her eyes held no trepidation and Luck was wholly bamboozled. "That won't make me feel better," he sighed finally pushing himself up from the ground.

"Ah… I guess it's another one of those things I'll never understand," she mused and opening her palm. Luck just about jumped out of his skin when the sword liquefied into a black ooze and, as if it had a mind of its own, seeped into a cut on the palm of the woman's hand. It was almost the same as when his wound healed, but she seemed to be able to control how the liquid moved.

"What are you?" He wondered.

A small smile tugged at the corners of her mouth as if she found something amusing in his question. "What am I? I'm afraid you're asking the wrong question, Mr. Gandor," she said.

"Then what question should I be asking?"

The woman thought his question over carefully. There were a variety of answers she could've responded with. However, the majority of the questions Luck needed to ask were things that he needed to figure out on his own. She couldn't help him with that, but she could answer one of the questions she was sure has passed through his mind by now.

"It the same question I need to be asking you," she replied a bit cryptically. "Are you dangerous? Despite what they've said, I don't really think you are. You have no idea what I am and if you did then I would need to be worried. Presently, neither you nor the others have taken sides and as long as that remains to be the case there's nothing to be worried about."

"I don't understand…"

"–then I'll explain it to you plainly," she said. "I was sent here to ascertain whether you and others like you are a threat to humanity."

"A threat to humanity," he repeated slowly. Was she serious? Surely not, yet a brief glance at her expression told him that she was totally serious. There was not a smile in sight and her eyes were cold and hard as if waiting to see if he would attack her or not.

"Yes," she nodded, "I know it sounds ridiculous…" Then she huffed tiredly brushing a strand of hair from her eyes, "Geeze, I can't believe their wasting my time with this. There are more important things I need to be doing…" Her eyes flickered down to her wrist where a wrist watch sat. "Tsk. And look at that I'm about to be late for an appointment."

She bent down and gathered up the discarded bag in her arms. Then without further ado she moved to step out of the alley and past a still thoroughly baffled Luck. "Wait," he called out causing her to pause in her movements. "What do I call you?"

The blonde turned back to him and replied, "My name's Weiss. You can think of me as your guardian angel." With that said she walked out of the alley and onto the busy street.

…

 _1930 San Francisco_

Dorothy Glass was cheerful person, despite her circumstances. A woman of only eighteen years old, out on her own, orphaned at a young age, and working a thankless job at a Chinese restaurant where customers were more often than not rude on a good day and downright deplorable the rest. She tried her best to keep a sunny smile on her face; but there were days like today where she had to physically bite her tongue to keep from delivering a rightfully deserved tongue lashing. Her day had started off okay –she woke up in a good mood –at least until she realized she had overslept. Then in her rush to get dressed, she tore her favorite pair of nylon stockings, stubbed her toe on her dresser and ended up getting her head caught in the neck-hole of her dress. And even after all that, she was greeted to an eviction notice nailed to her door and later a twenty-minute lecture from her boss about the importance of being prompt.

Now here she stood, a teapot of hot jasmine tea in her hands and strained smile as she walked up to a table. There a man sat by himself pursing a menu. He was by society standards, handsome as he was young. A strong jawline and broad shoulders with a lithe muscular build, he was the type of person you'd expect to be an actor in a picture show. He had sandy blond hair and skin so pale it reminded her of fresh goat's milk. But it was the eyes that flickered to her face, when she set down a teacup on the table and poured some of the hot liquid into it, that really set him apart; two orbs, one a liquid gold and the other a dark brown.

"Lovely weather we're having today," Dorothy commented looking outside where the sun was shining on the cobble stone streets. "Do you need more time with the menu?"

"No. I'm ready to order," he replied. Sher took out a pad and pencil, quickly scribbling down his order and returned to the kitchen. It was only later that Dorothy realized that that man wasn't actually human. What made her realize this was his eyes, she used to know two people with eyes exactly like his –well, not exactly like. They weren't the same color or anything, but they had same appearance –her parents. Although, they weren't her actual parents, they didn't give birth to her, but she loved them all the same.

And when the man returned to the restaurant the next day, Dorothy decided to ask him about it. "I know what you are," she said setting down the teacup.

The man's eyes never left the menu, however his lips quirked up slightly. "You do, do you?"

"Yes. You're one of them."

"One of who?" he retorted.

Dorothy took a quick look around her to make sure no one was eavesdropping on their conversation. Then replied, "I'm not good at telling the two apart, but you know what I mean. You're a grim reaper."

He actually did smile this time. "Just as I suspected. You're a difficult person to find, Ms. Glass."

…

 _1931 Central Station_

When the passengers who boarded The Flying Pussyfoot finally arrived at Grand Central Station, they were relieved. No one wanted to be on that cursed train any more than necessary. And after the interrogations from the Federal Bureau and a lot of cash bribes, people simply wanted to forget the mass slaughter that took place. So it went without saying, that when passengers stumbled onto platform twelve they were all looking a little worse for wear.

Ruby leaned against one of the baggage cars as they waited for their trunks to be unloaded. A man limped by, being supported by a blonde woman with an eyepatch. "Oh, it hurts…" he groaned hobbling on what looked to be a shot leg, "just give me a minute, Nice. I'm sorry, but could we please go a little slower. My leg is killing me."

The blonde, Nice, smiled sympathetically. "Alright, Jacuzzi. It's not that much further to the car. But if it hurts that badly, Donny did offer to carry ya."

The man looked back at the towering giant of a man following behind. "Nah, it's alright. I can make it to the car."

Ruby's attention was pulled from the couple when Weiss approached pushing a large metal cart piled with luggage. "I got the trunks," she announced stopping next to her.

The redhead perked up. "Excellent," she said, "I was thinking that when we get to Phryne's I'm going to take a long hot bath. I look like I just stumbled out of a butcher's shop. It's a good thing humans don't see notice us or we would be in trouble."

"Read my mind," Weiss agreed shifting her blood soaked coat on her body, "I don't know how we're going to get these blood stains out of these clothes."

"Then perhaps we should stop by an Apothecary. I'm sure they'd have some cleansing salts strong enough to clean our clothes." Ruby suggested. Weiss nodded silently and began to push the cart toward the exit and Ruby followed behind. "But as long as we're going, we should pick up some other things as well. See if maybe we could get some more adder stones and we almost out of moly…"

"–Ruby," Weiss interrupted suddenly, her tone serious. The Redhead turned and looked at the small blonde woman confused. She had stopped walking in the middle of the platform, eyes staring straight ahead at a group of people in front of them. At first, Ruby wasn't sure what was going on. But as she turned and looked to where her partner was looking she immediately understood why Weiss had stopped walking.

The group consisted of nine people, six men, two women, and one small boy. At first glance, they all appeared to be relatively normal, however if one were to take more than a quick once over they would notice that that group was anything but normal. For one thing, three of the people had been aboard the train -a blond man decked out in cowboy attire named Isaac Dian, a woman wearing a flashy red Latino inspired dress known as Miria Harvent, and the small boy wearing a peaky cap and lugging a large case who had the unusual name of Czeslaw Meyer –and of these three people the man and the woman were particular noticeable with their loud greetings that carried across the platform.

"Look! It's Ennis, Firo, and Maiza!"

"Oh! Ennis how I missed you!"

What drew the reaper and scythe's attention to them, though, wasn't the unusual clothes or their loud voice. No that wasn't it at all. What drew their attention to them was something only they could see. And that thing was their lifespans. Unlike everyone else, these nine individuals had no lifespan. What does that mean? Well, when a person is born they are giving a limited amount of 'breath' or soul energy. The lifespan keeps track of how much soul energy a person has and when that lifespan runs out reapers remove the last bit of soul energy, which is really no more than a dead battery for holding the energy, and deposit it in a soul bank to be returned to heaven where it'll be recharged used to make another living soul. But these individuals' lifespans had already run out. By law of nature, they shouldn't be there and yet they were; standing, talking, and laughing like living breathing humans.

"Those are them?" Ruby whispered dumbly, "Those are the immortals?"

"Mmmhm." Weiss responded.


End file.
